


That feeling of glee, I tried so desperately to keep

by Hijacking_Hearts



Series: Turn the page read the story, come and bask in all the glory. [4]
Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Guilt, Inspired by Music, Lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-12 00:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15983831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hijacking_Hearts/pseuds/Hijacking_Hearts
Summary: He was that illusion his mind had created in order to cope with the guilt that was eating him alive.Evan couldn't bring himself to forget, to move on, to let himself breath, because if he did then it would all disappear along with all the fantasies of false friendship he kept in his head.Inspired by Rebecca Sugar's song Time Adventure





	That feeling of glee, I tried so desperately to keep

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is.
> 
> Fixed up some grammatical issues.

There was a time when Evan had everything he wanted only an arm’s reach away. He remembers clearly what it was like, having those dreams he dreamt of late at night become a reality. He remembers clearly how the feeling of longing and loneliness had practically vanished once it was all there with him. He remembers how amazing it felt, that warm airy feeling that made it easier for him to breathe even when all he wanted to do was suffocate himself with that handmade necklace he kept hidden in his room.

That sensation of openly smiling without it hurting the way it used to, the faded lines of pain healing and disappearing from his body, the flowers that bloomed within his mind, bright splashes of color that decorated the walls of his conscious that painted over the dull grey he had grown accustomed to. Despite the bright (burning burning burning bright god it hurt) light that illuminated him his smiles were still strained, the lines burned and they itched and those flowers in his head didn't stop the occasional weed from sprouting and rooting itself in his mind taking over the garden he tried so hard to tend to.

Those warm embraces burned and they hurt because they weren't meant for him, those smiles blinded and hurt his eyes because he was used to the drowning darkness he grew up with. Those cheery voices hurt his head because they were so loud, and joyful. He didn't deserve that happiness directed at him, god he didn't deserve it (he's a liar, a liar liar liar liar liar liar) because he stole it from someone else. He had stolen it from someone who actually needed it but could no longer get it.

He remembers the near overwhelming feeling of soft lips upon his, a warm body beneath his hands pressed up against him, whispered words of want that had no true meaning behind them because they were born from desperation and deception. He remembers just how underwhelming it was when he finally had her there when she was finally his when he found out she was just as damaged and broken as he was. The strong feeling of disappointment when she wasn't as perfect as he had imagined (no no no no no no no no she needed to be perfect to balance out just how broken he was, she need to be, he needs it) her to be.

The way he realized she was just a girl, a girl who had been hurt and cracked from the amount of emotional bruising she withstood. He still remembered the way she flinched when a door was closed to loudly, when someone was too loud, when she heard someone arguing, and the way her shoulders would tense whenever he put his hand on her arm right above her elbow.

He remembers, he remembers so much of it all. How could he forget (the voices and the memories echoes around in a hurricane of pain, and guilt in his head) when he started it all?

He remembers just how happy the anxiety-ridden stressed out girl, with glasses, smiled so brightly at him when he listened to her and gave her attention. They way she perked up when he looked in her direction, when he smiled at her, or when he called her by her name. Her eagerness to help keep the memory of the angry paranoid boy she so knew so little of alive. Her eagerness to spread the word of the tragedy that happened (there's the not so foreign feeling of anger and desperation bubbling and festering in his stomach when he remembered how she didn't always listen to the same extent she wanted to be listened to) when she shared the letter of the sorrowful goodbye written by the sad dead teen.

That letter was meant to be private because he knew that was the key to keeping the illusion he had created alive so long as it was kept secret and shared only with those mourning the boy who wrote the letter. That letter was written by a broken boy (the broken boy still alive and regretfully breathing when the one who was being mourned had absolutely nothing to do with it) who only wanted to be seen and he had been seen (only after he no longer walked, and no longer talked, and no longer lived).

He remembers how the girl sticking her nose a little too deep into his (broken shitty crumbling made-up) story of a boy mourning his dead friend after she began to grow suspicious of its plot and its narrator.

He remembers begging to the boy who had stinging words constantly dripping from his tongue (because he didn't know how to properly communicate with others) to help edit his story, to fix the plot holes and grammatical errors he failed to erase before letting someone read it. He remembers growing angry when the boy denied helping him when everything was falling apart and crumbling in his hands when he needed him the most. That red-hot anger that manifested so often in his soul, in his head, in his heart, but never truly presenting itself until he let it all get to his head.

He remembers the pain and anger in his mother's eyes when she finally found out (finding out after everybody else in the world knew of it, always the last to know her own son despite living with him) about his lies, of how easily she had replaced for another by her own son. He remembers how all crashed down upon him nearly killing him when the weight of his consequences pinned him down and stared him straight in the eyes.

He remembers the broken faces of the ones in mourning when he told them the truth. How the disgust and disbelief painted itself in their eyes when they finally learned just how vile he truly was.

He remembers the boy (no he doesn't he didn't even know him, damn it) who he wronged, he remembers his voice (the one he created in his head) he remembers the moments they shared, (what memories you fucking liar) he remembers so much (there's nothing to remember you liar).

He was that illusion his mind had created in order to cope with the guilt that was eating him alive.

Evan couldn't bring himself to forget, to move on, to let himself breath, because if he did then it would all disappear along with all the fantasies of false friendship he kept in his head. False memories spoon fed to him by himself in order to keep himself functioning under the crushing guilt he felt for the lies he told and claimed to be true.  
He remembers it so well because he still has dreams (nightmares, those weren't dreams, dreams don't make you cry or throw up when you have them) every night. He still had the boys voice in his head only now it hissed hateful words and hurtful phrases into his ear to keep him constantly aware of just how truly disgusting he was.

There's always guilt rearing its ugly head when he least expects it, but there's no regret. A shit ton of guilt, but no regret.  
He could never regret it.

Because for a moment, a small moment in his fucking shitty life he had something that was all his. It was something that he could claim for himself, something that was free to take, to bask in it while it lasted.

No, he didn't regret it; he'd do it all over again if he could.

He'd just try harder next time.

**Author's Note:**

> Join my Discord y'all:
> 
> https://discord.gg/NvESgKT


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